A Case of Mistaken Identity
by Smiffygans Nekobasu
Summary: Repo! The Genetic Opera Yes, I did it. I'm evil. Shilo has a lot of reasons to hate her mother. ShiloxNathan.


**A/N: Holy cannoli! Why is there a lack of Shilo/Nathan. I know that I'm not the only sick, twisted, depraved individual that thought that Shilo must have caught Flowers in the Attic Syndrome after spending her years dealing with a teenage libido and only daddy to take it out on? Come on, now! **

**Mama drama's got to go, dad.**

**Nothing's gonna bring her back.**

**Experiment on something living.**

**Seventeen.**

**Cause I'm sweeter than sixteen.**

**Tell me it doesn't scream Shathan at you.**

**Title: A Case of Mistaken Identity**

**Rating: M for Mature. Sorry, kiddies, this one's meant for the big boys and girls. The trademark Wallace angstyness, mentions of death, and the big one- incest. Yes, that's right. daddy/daughter lovin', don't like, don't read.**

**Character(s): Shilo, Nathan, probably mentions of Dead Marni but not too much because she's too canon for me.**

**Summary: She had a lot of reasons to hate her mother. ShiloxNathan.**

She could remember that standing in the dim hall light was like being naked in an ice storm. There was the very nearly painful prickling of shards of cold stabbing into her too white skin. But it was all forgotten in the moment when she stepped through the doorway into the darkness. If it was not like sinking into a warm bath, then it was at least like finding a place where the biting wind did not reach her. It was slipping into bed beside him that was the best, the warmest, the safest. In that moment when she slid onto the sheets and pressed her self against his chest, when the covers came up to envelop her that was the the most memorable. The way that sometimes he would seem reluctant to let her stay, but inveitably every time, his arms would at last tuck around her and pull her closer. She always slept best beside him.

Sometimes he would kneel in front of her, his eyes would stare into hers, as if he were begging for forgiveness for some unspoken sin. It was in those moments that she would feel that she was simply a replacement for her mother. One had been taken away, so another had been given to replace what was lost. If she hadn't looked so much like her, maybe there would not be those few seconds of mistaken identity. There would not be times when he could forget that she was not her mother. His hands would raise up in an attempt to touch hers, but always find the space empty where she had snatched them back and out of his grasp. Instead, he would lay them gently on her legs, palms flat and cool against her skin. Those sad eyes would lower to the ground as he traced the line where her stockings met her body, again and again. Simply that and nothing else, just his fingertips running from one side of her thigh to the next, and she would never complain.

He was so often a pillar of strength that sometimes he seemed completely unreachable. It was as if she were holding out her arms and it was never close enough. But every once in a while, he would crumble and allow himself to fall into her hug. His head would lay against her shoulder and she would stroke the back of her hand against his cheek. Fingers that were often so sure would tremble, as his hands tangled in her dress. It was an unreal sensation to her, fingers tightenig on her hips, even when it forced gasps up through her lips, it was more like a dream than reality. She was always shocked by the noises that started in her throat, more like an animal than a human being. Then he would say it, one word that made every feeling in her sink into numb anger. "Marni."

She could be cruel sometimes, heartless, even, but it was just the cruelty of a jealous seventeen year old girl. She would always respond without question, "Dad?" And he would be gone, terrified to look at her or to touch her for days, but whether this was from guilt or just disappointment that she'd turned out to be Shilo, she couldn't ever say. Either way, it left her there to stare up at the portrait of her mother, every inch of her damp skin trembling. Some days she would look up at the dark eyed, unfeeling angel and beg for a scrap of pity. 'Please, mother, stop it. Stop taking, leave me something to survive on.'

Her father always came around, he'd pretend that nothing had happened, and come back to be with her. Days like that, his forehead would rest against Shilo's. Sometimes she'd try and tilt her face upward, but somehow he always managed to act as if he had no idea what she was doing. And when her hands fumbled with his clothing, he'd hold her wrists and look embarassed. It was strictly medicine and to bed with her, like the good little girl that they both knew that she was. 'Behave yourself, Shilo. We both know his soul is mine,' the portrait would whisper as she drifted off to sleep.

There was only one moment when she felt completely free of the phantom that watched over her room. What a bittersweet time that had been. Her father laying in her arms, falling slowly into death and away from her. Perhaps it had been the fall that had made him reachable to her. His mouth had said, "I love you," and his eyes hadn't been far away and focused on heaven, they'd been right there on her. It had been the only time that she'd actually been real in his life, at least, that was her opinion of the matter. Even laying on her bed now, it's not an entirely heartbreaking scene because she finally became real. Pinocchio cut his strings at last. That was the tragedy about it, finally breaking through and losing the only thing that made it important in the first place. It was almost comic.


End file.
